


Cougar's Bluff

by ClaraxBarton, QueenoftheRandomWord42



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American Civil War Mentioned but not shown, Animal typical behaviors, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Horses, Irish!Steve Rogers, M/M, Neighbors to Friends to Lovers, Oregon Trail (referenced), Redwing (Freeform), Set in 1870, Some side character death but those characters died in canon, Western AU, also some characters start families, bamf horses, mountain lion attack not shown, takes place over the span of a few years, the cowboy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 20:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheRandomWord42/pseuds/QueenoftheRandomWord42
Summary: It's Oregon 1870 and several families moved west for an opportunity to start anew, two such families the Wilsons and Bucky and his Howling Commandoes from the war are two such families.They lived as neighbors for years, until an old enemy returns from the depths of the forest and Sam and Bucky need to work together if they are to surviveArt by ClaraxBartonFic by QueenoftheRandomWord42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



> Special thanks to several people, without whom this fic would not exist  
> Thanks to ClaraxBarton for the inspiring artwork, For Pohadka for being an expert consultant on horse behavior, my friend Violetti for beta reading, and bringing attention to the one video she found about a mule fighting a mountain lion to protect some dogs it had bonded with, despite her really busy work schedule, and my coworker for his expertise on Oregon History that I overlooked in my admittedly choppy research. Most of what he mentioned is more likely to wind up in the side stories of this fic verse because there was a ton to cover.  
> Full Disclosure: I am a Third Generation on my father's side Oregonian, but I am a zoologist, not a historian so all historical errors or Period Inappropriate Language/attitudes are on me.

**Columbia Gorge, 1870**

In the eastern foothills of the Cascade Mountains which safeguarded the sunset like a row of sentries, and south of the Columbia River, cutting through the landscape like a steel grey ribbon, Samuel Thomas Wilson, a free man, urged his horse forward.

Redwing was a good horse, a liver chestnut gelding who fought beside him in his old cavalry days when Sam Wilson had fought in the Union. Redwing was an even-tempered horse for the most part but stamped and bit like a son of a bitch when he felt ornery, and Sam was the only one who could calm him when he was in those moods. Sam and Redwing had been through a lot together.

Sam found him in a mix of other horses but was the only one who could tame the horse with calm words and a gentle hand. In return, the horse stood guard over Sam when he slept on long nights in the field or the rare occasion where he was knocked off his horse during the War. Sam would clamber back on to his horse’s back while Riley swooped in and shot off any Confederate soldier who tried to take advantage of Sam’s vulnerable position in the chaos of the Civil War.

Behind Sam, he could feel a western gust of cold wind rushing along the river, bringing the strong scent of rain, and causing Sam to glance behind.

Behind him, he saw grey skies pushing over the Cascade Mountains and thick damp forests, the dark boiling clouds contrasting the distant white snowy peaks, the wind thick with the smell of damp moss and rain.

Sam shivered and urged his horse forward just a little faster again, the sooner he finished herding the sheep the quicker he could get home and out of the rain.

He pulled his oilskin coat over his wool jacket underneath.

The cold Oregon air was nothing like the hot sticky air of the south he gathered his family away from.

“Come on Redwing, the sooner we finish the sooner you can get back to the stall for the night,” Sam muttered, and Redwing rushed forward, with wicker.

The grass of Sam’s fields was velvet green with the spring, and his sheep were contentedly grazing before some of the more skittish sheep began the march back to the barns on the other side of the field.

All appeared to be good, and Sam glanced up the sign he and Riley carved when they arrived, marking their shared properties as “Cougar’s Bluff”, and beyond that on top of one of the nearby hills, Sam could see the three gravestones his family placed there since coming here. The first one, facing the family homestead was Sam’s father, Paul Wilson, who died years before Sam brought the family west, but they placed the stone in tribute to Sam’s father so he could watch over the family for generations to come.

It was Riley’s idea to place the stone there, as Riley and Sam’s sister Sarah found the hilltop while they were scouting and Sam and his brother Gideon chiseled their father’s name on a slab of stone, wanting their father to taste the freedom the whole family had carved for themselves, his mother preparing a small cloth replica of her departed husband and the wooden cross fashioned out of bits of the broken broom they had jumped over at their wedding several years ago.

Sam ushered the last of the sheep in and locked the barn closed as his brother locked the chicken coup closed several yards away.

“That’ll keep that blasted raccoon out,” Gideon grumbled, wiping his hands with the handkerchief as he approached Sam. Gideon climbed onto his horse to join Sam on the trail back to the house.

“Do you still think it’s a raccoon getting the chickens?” Sam asked, “it could have been a coyote or the bobcat I caught a glimpse of  while I was out, it was eating a fawn I think.”

“I don’t think it’s a coyote,” Gideon said, looking pensive and gazing out over the field, for a moment Sam caught a flash of movement, but it was only a great blue heron eating a gopher in the field.

“Why do you say that?” Sam asked as the heron finished its dinner, tucked its neck in, and took flight in large wing strokes in a bobbing gait to its roost.

“The coyotes have stopped calling at this close to dusk, and I don’t think I need to remind you what happened last time that happened.”

Sam side eyed his brother, they had noticed the pattern a few times in the past few years since they moved out here, sometimes they would hear coyotes howl and yelp after dark, but then there would be periods of silence outside. Sam was grateful when that happened, he was less likely to find any coyotes stalking their livestock.

Of course, that didn’t mean there was nothing out there when the coyotes were silent.

“So, I was thinking of going to visit Riley tomorrow, do you think you can cover the sheep while I do that? Tomorrow’s his birthday.” Sam asked.

Gideon’s eyes softened, “Yeah, of course, but you be careful alright? I don’t like how quiet the coyotes are being, and I only have one brother,” he teased.

Sam gave his brother a flat look, “Gideon, you’ve changed since Jim was born.”

“Of course I have, and I will always look out for him, and his favorite uncle,” Gideon said, patting Sam on the back before pulling on Redwing’s reins to pull the horse into his stall.

 Sam quickly gave his horse a rub down, brush down, and gave the horse some fresh water and grain for his dinner.

“Let’s head back,” Gideon said, patting Sam on his shoulder, “come on, Ma’s waiting, and she’ll worry if we’re out after dark.”

 

**Columbia Gorge 1870 on the other side of Cougar’s Bluff**

Winter was restless this spring evening, as the dapple grey mare gazed at the hilly plains and under Bucky’s gentle command drove the cattle forward from one grazing pasture to another.

“Good girl,” Bucky cooed at her, and the horse flickered her tail at the praise.

His ranch hands Dum Dum, Morita, Falsworth, Dernier, and Carter were urging the horses around the herd of cattle, the cattle moving as a shifting herd unit, reminding Bucky of a flock of birds he sometimes sees flying in the distance, especially when the birds parted and reunited around the falcon he sometimes sees diving into the mass talons first.

The cattle kept pressing forward, and Bucky urged Winter forward to lead the steers forward when one of them flushed a black-tailed deer out from some undergrowth, judging from the nubs on the top of its head, it was a buck.

Before anyone could do anything, Carter whipped out her rifle and shot the buck down in one clean shot.

“Nice shot, Peg!” Dum Dum cheered as he cut one of the steers off before he could bolt and cause an uncontrolled stampede, the animal quickly changed direction, trotted a few feet, but the calm of the rest of the herd soothed the animal to placidly move forward.

“Well someone needs to bring home supper,” she said with the posh accent that would cause her father in law to turn in his grave.

Morita pulled up alongside Carter to collect the deer, they would have to move quickly before the smell of blood attracted anything like coyotes or maybe even the rare wolf pack that Bucky wasn’t sure was around anymore after Rumlow and his crew went by to collect their bounty.

The animal was transferred between the two horses and the cattle reached its next grazing ground, fences enacted around them to prevent rustlers and predatory animals from taking any of the cattle during the dark of night.

Bucky gazed over the herd as the sun moved closer to the mountains and forest to the west, this year he might get a good profit come to the cattle drive, but then he looked at the grass, it wasn’t as green or as long as he had hoped it would be since last year, which meant he’d have to move the cattle again soon.

“James?” Peggy asked as she pulled up to him, and like him, she was noticing the grass too.

“Yes?” Bucky, Morita, Falsworth, and Dernier asked, only Dernier asked with a french “Oui?”.

“Oh very funny, I mean Barnes,” Peggy grumbled with an eye roll, and they laughed for a little, Dum Dum and Falsworth locking the paddock for the night as they urged the horses to meet up with the other half of the Ranch hands, today run by the ranch manager Jones, who was running the goat half of the ranch.

“Yes, Peggy?” Bucky asked.

“I have an idea, I noticed we’re keeping the cows on certain pastures longer than it seems to take for the grass to recover, but there are some weeds that our goats aren’t trimming back as much, but what if we had other animals to rotate to help the grass? I heard grass responds well to chickens and sheep for example, plus we can sell their meat while we’re at it.” Peggy continued.

“That’s a good idea Peggy, but we’d have to hire more people or cut back on the number of animals we’re keeping if we are to sustain it, and sheep attract predators like coyotes, which will, in turn, eat the calves we’ve got.”

Peggy lifted her chin, and Bucky knew he’d be fighting a losing battle with someone who he agreed with.

“Let’s talk it over with Steve, he might have a better idea of what the ranch can afford, and Gabe will have a better idea of what we’ll need for manpower.”

“You know I’m right, and Steve will agree” Peggy insisted with a grin, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well Steve’s your husband, of course, he’ll agree with you,” Bucky admitted.

“Of course, I married a man with good sense.”

They rode back to the ranch house in the coming dark, and ahead Bucky could see Dum Dum, Falsworth, Dernier, and Morita greeting Jones, Pinky, Junior, and Sawyer, probably reeking of musk from the one billy Bucky kept.

The door to the ranch house swung open and a golden-haired toddler dashed out like her little dress was on fire, her arms swinging in the air shouting “Momma, Momma!”

“Hello my darling!” Peggy urged her horse forward and swung off to pick up her daughter in a hug, the girl burrowing her face into her mother’s vest and neckerchief.

“What? No love for Uncle Buck?” Bucky teased from his horse. but the toddler just simply kept ducking her face into her mother’s embrace before pulling her head up to give her uncle a one-handed wave.

“No,” Sharon said as she greeted Bucky.

“Sharon you wound your uncle, Uncle Bucky might never recover, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“No.”

The rest of Howling Commandos howled with laughter, and Peggy simply giggled before kissing Sharon on the temple.

“After the day we had, we better think up a new plan,” Sharon’s father and Peggy’s husband grumbled as he climbed down the small porch, and Bucky saw his best friend walk over. Peggy gave Steve a quick kiss, Steve wrapping his arms around Peggy while she was at it, and Sharon grabbed at her father’s shoulder to give her “Pop” a kiss too. Steve’s eyes softened and he kissed Sharon’s little cheek and gently ruffled her hair as the child giggled.

 Steve was a short, slight man, his blond hair was parted to the side, and he wore a plain wool shirt and suspenders, the notebook containing all the information about the cattle and the ranch’s finances hastily shoved into a pocket, looking like Steve was going over the numbers again. Bucky hoped Steve had good news.

“New plan for what?” Bucky asked, and Steve ushered the Commandos in.

“Sharon spotted a mountain lion this morning while you guys were out,” Steve reported, “or until I realized what kind of “kitty” she was talking about’, it disappeared in the underbrush before I could pull out the shotgun, so I kept her in the house all day.”

Bucky got a close look at his foreman, and he could see that Steve had to bend over backward all day to keep the toddler entertained, he looked tired, and some of the objects looked like they had been pushed back into place with the contained chaos that was the little girl, said little bundle of beloved chaos was helping her mother put the horses away. Sharon kept trying to stick her fingers into Winter’s patient nose, the mare pulling her nose out of the toddler’s reach while Peggy tried to put a curry comb into her daughter’s hands so she could brush the horse instead. This thankfully kept little fingers away from horse teeth.

They shared grim looks, and Morita and Junior carried the buck aside to clean it and butcher it for supper, it sounded like they had a lot they needed to talk about tonight, including new safety measures on top of Peggy’s idea for livestock management.

Once the horses were in the stables, comfortable, feed, and watered, the humans went in, where it was Pinky and Sawyer’s turn to cook, so they had roasted venison, carrots and collard greens from the garden, and dinner talk moved from the weather and livestock to Steve’s day.

“I was trying to get Sharon to help me feed the ducks at the marsh out back when she started shouting ‘kitty, kitty’, and I thought she was talking about Alpine at first, but I looked up, and there it was staring right at us, I grabbed Sharon and pulled out the shotgun, and it disappeared. So I carried Sharon inside as quick as I could and we stayed inside for the rest of the day,” Steve reported, sounded just like a father who had a major scare, the rest of the ranch hands glanced at each other with worried looks, then glanced at the child who was playing on the rug next to the table with Alpine, Bucky’s snow white house cat, batting at the loose bit of yarn Sharon was tugging with a giggling chant of “kitty, kitty, kitty.”

“Do you think it’s the same one that attacked that trapper about a year ago?” Jones asked, and Steve shrugged with a confused head shake.

“Alright, new plan, everyone we’re going to have to stick to the buddy system,” Steve announced, and Bucky could see Steve had a plan, probably spent a major portion of the day going over ideas when Sharon napped.

“And tomorrow I can head over to the neighbor’s place, they should probably be made aware of the cougar sighting,” Bucky began thinking.

“Which ones? The Wilsons two plots over, or those assholes that are messing with the fence?” Morita asked.

“Both, starting with the Wilsons, I’ll head out to Chinook Waters and leave a warning note at Ross’s General Store after we bring the cattle further back in so we can protect them, then I’ll pay each of neighbors a visit.”

Bucky remembered receiving the news in the saloon, Sam was the one to tell him about the funeral he was hosting for the Trapper after his family, good folk who preferred to keep to themselves, tried to nurse him back to health after the Trapper’s visiting kin tried to save him. But once the gangrene set in there was little anyone could do other than ease the poor man’s sufferings.

The ranch hands began to make their ways to the bunks, while Steve and Peggy took the only bed, married couple’s privilege, while Sharon was tucked into the trundle under the bed.

Bucky crawled onto his bunk close to the fireplace, took a deep breath, listened to the sounds of his friends get comfortable, and closed his eyes remembering the day he met Sam Wilson.

**Chinook Waters Oregon, 1867**

James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes had a rough year.

It started out great, he made a major life decision to move out here, lost at love while the object of his affections remained oblivious, and was now struggling to get a Ranch started from scratch while trying to secure enough supplies to keep his ranch hands--the friends he made along the way--fed during the long cold wet winter.

His best friend and Ranch foreman Steve was having a great year, he joined Bucky to move out here, got a job he was fantastic at, already planning ahead for the number of cows and bulls they needed to purchase to start the ranch, and won at love with a baby due in March.

Today, the Ranch manager Gabe Jones, organized most of the men on a trip to the Columbia River a few miles north with a cart fashioned out of one of the Wagons they used to head west, in hopes to collect enough Salmon to last the Winter. Peggy, Steve’s new wife felt too sick to join them, and instead opted to stay home, smoke the catch they already had, and try and rest while the baby kept taking up her energy. Bucky, however, didn’t think she’d stay home for long, Bucky could tell she was a restless woman, as she kept eyeing some black-tailed deer grazing in and out of the fields surrounding the homestead, so Bucky had a feeling they would have venison and whatever edible plants she found on her way back from her hunt.

Bucky’s sling was jostled when the horse he was riding on--the stubborn painted chestnut nag only respond to Steve with any respect--and Bucky hissed as the left side of his chest rebloomed in pain. Six weeks ago he broke his collarbone during a landslide while the party was traveling in the Blue Mountains, the rain making some of the lands on the trail unsteady, and his old horse slid and landed off the trail. Bucky survived bruised, battered, and unable to use his left arm, but his horse had to be put down because of a broken leg.

 The Coho or Silver Salmon they caught already slid a little, and Bucky dashed to catch them right handed, only sighing in relief when the all the fishes tails avoided touching the ground, and Bucky directed Spangles to the butchers to sell this morning’s catch.

The Butcher was a hard man to barter with, but Bucky had learned how to haggle on the trail and managed to fetch a decent amount of cash, enough for a few live chickens and ducks, but not much else. The Market, however, wasn’t selling any chickens or ducks, and Bucky needed the eggs those animals would produce if they were to survive the winter.

Bucky pursed his lips, and slinked into the saloon to talk to some of the locals, mostly to see if they had any animals they could spare.

He hitched Spangles with only a few not so painful nips, but Bucky had a feeling his pain tolerance had only grown since he broke his collarbone and sat down, his shoulder still throbbing. Bucky ordered some whiskey, paying with pennies so as not to advertise his apparent wealth to the strangers, and turned around to scan the room.

The Saloon didn’t have much, a few men in a corner sitting around a game of cards, others playing with a pool table, and a woman in a low cut dress seemed to talk flirtatiously with a young man with more lust then sense.

“Hey partner, long time no see!” A man with a strong southern accent said, sitting on his left, gently patting him on the back like Bucky was an old friend.

His confusion only lasted for a second before a second man--this one black--took a seat on his other side leaned in, brown eyes piercing deeply and whispered: “pretend to know us, there are some men from Portland, and they are a shady bunch.”

“It’s been too long, what are you guys doing here?” Bucky asked with a startled laugh, suddenly noticing the men at the card table had been eying him closer than he realized, the short one with the glasses, in particular, started to give him the creeps.

 Bucky had moved to Chinook Waters for only a week before he heard rumors of men going missing only to wind up being shanghaied by men in Portland, sold to less reputable ship captains while the kidnappers took the sailor’s salary while the man was working as a slave. Bucky saw the black man’s jaw tighten when one of the men shot him a dirty look and he edged closer to Bucky slightly tense.

“Oh, the usual, selling the goods for Market, getting the homestead ready for winter, don’t let the September warmth fool you, come the end of the month it’ll be cold and wet, and you’ll be thankful you started the harvest now instead of later,” The man with the Southern accent said with a nod.

“Don’t I know it, I’m here to see if there are any fowl we can get for winter,” Bucky nodded, “Steve, Gabe, and the others went to the River to get some salmon, and Steve lent me Spangles, but I got to find a new horse soon, because Steve’s gonna need Spangles real bad come spring.”

Sam then surprised everyone with a loud yawn, “Sorry, my nephew kept everyone up last night.”

“How is little James?” Riley asked, though there was something in his tone that implied that Riley knew exactly how little James was.

“Oh, same old, same old, can’t believe he’s getting so big, my brother is trying to keep him healthy because he’s approaching his first birthday,” Sam said with a shrug and an excited grin.

“That’s so cute, and I can’t wait for Steve and Peggy’s baby get big enough to play with little James,” Bucky said, his voice taking on a playful tone, “And might I add how flattered I still am that your brother named his son after me?”

Both men burst into laughter.

 “Oh right, I forgot that’s your Christian name,” Riley said, wiping a fake tear away from the corner of his eye, “but no, that’s not how little Jimmy Wilson got his name.”

“Well everybody does call me Bucky, so you’re forgiven… what was your Christian name again?”

“You, I like, but for your slippery memory, I will remind you that I’m Riley, Riley Burnside, and this is my partner Sam Wilson.”

“How do you do?” Sam asked in a mocking tone, and Bucky laughed so hard his shoulder made him wince, and he took a drink of his whiskey to dull the pain.

“You guys are gonna kill me at this rate,” Bucky protested.

They kept talking like that, and Riley showed him where the general store was, apparently they had a shipment of winter wheat stock coming in, as well as a few canned goods and winter fruit, gourds, and squashes to stretch out the cellar, and Sam showed him where they could get some ducks and offered some of his own chickens he grew himself on his family’s homestead.

Bucky kept seeing them every time he went into town, and when Riley caught pneumonia, Bucky and a few of his Ranch hands came over to help out with the work while Sam and his family went to Riley’s place to nurse him back to health, and were there to attend Riley’s funeral in the fall of 1868.

**Cougar’s Bluff 1870 Morning in the Wilson Cabin.**

Widow Darlene Wilson ran a tight ship around the house, and she ran the fields with the rest of her children, as well as carding, dying and spinning the wool she used to make her own clothing, or yarn that she would sell on the market, vowing to never wear a cotton garment in her life, Oregon’s cold humid spring, fall, and winters making that particular vow easy to keep. Summers not so much, but she compromised with fewer layers.

 

Sam knew because he was the one to buy the sheep to help her keep that vow, and he saw his mother prepare another batch of wool for spinning.

 Today she wore a simple brown dress dyed from oak bark and wore a simple straw hat with a few rooster feathers sticking out from the brim.

Jordan and Janet, her two youngest twin grandchildren were asleep next to her in knit blankets while their mother Sarah was outside feeding the chickens. Their father was out cutting douglas fir timber for the lumber yards in Portland.

“Ma, I’m going to be heading out to visit Riley after I’m done with the day’s work, Gideon agreed to put the sheep to bed,” Sam told her while she carded in a rhythm, getting the fibers to align between the two carding brushes.

“Please be careful, I don’t want you to wind up like Erik did about a year ago. Gideon told me about the missing coyotes, and I don’t like those dark clouds building up either,” She said pleadingly, aware there was little she could do to persuade Sam to do anything other than what he wanted.

Sam knew this because he heard this argument several times when he lived in his and Riley’s Cabin on the Bluff, and his mother was keen to remind him he could be surrounded by family and loved ones here.

Sam humored her because he couldn’t stand staying in that cabin alone any longer.

“Uncle Sam!”

Sam felt a tiny force bounce off the back of his shins and he spun around to pick up three-year-old Jimmy, the boy surviving his first year, and with luck, the family prayed every day for Jimmy’s continued health.

The little boy cheered as his uncle picked him up, his grandmother shushing him as one of the twins made a noise in their sleep, and Sam nodded, lifting the three-year-old and tucking him under his arm like the kid was a sack of potatoes, Jimmy giggling quietly as his uncle carried him outside.

Outside Gideon was chopping wood with an ax while his wife Valerie was at the pump, manually pumping water from the wells under the earth.

“Hey Mama, Papa!” Jimmy called from his spot from under Sam’s arm.

“Sam, while you’re are out, could you bring home some game for supper tonight?” Valerie asked in her faint Louisiana accent. “Gideon told me about your plans tonight, so you be careful.”

“Of course,” Sam said, already turning to his nephew, “Jimmy, want to help me get some eggs for breakfast?”

“Yea Uncle Sam, I want to get all the eggs for breakfast,” Jimmy cheered, “I want to get a whole dozen because the chickens go cluck cluck cluck when they lay their eggs!”

So Sam put Jimmy down, picked up a basket for him and his nephew, and grabbed the boy’s arm to keep him from running off as they joined Sarah at the chicken coup where she was opening the doors for the chickens to leave their nightly perches and pick at the cracked corn she had scattered on the ground outside. The chickens clucked and began to peck and scratch at the ground, a few hens were quickly followed by a few tiny chicks that Jimmy followed.

Sam watched as Jimmy gently tried to pick up one of the chicks, but pulled him away gently when the hen began to turn in his direction, pulling her neck back to peck at the child.

Jimmy quickly lost interest in the chicks and followed his uncle into the coup where they began to gather the recently laid eggs that the hens laid.

“Hey Uncle Sam, look at this long green feather, I think it’s from a rooster because it’s longer and greener than the ones from the hens,” Jimmy said, picking up a feather, and tugging at his uncle’s sleeve.

Sam glanced at it and chuckled over the feeling of sadness that he felt last time he saw one of his rooster’s feathers.

**Chinook Waters Spring of 1869 at the general store**

Sam and Sarah were browsing along the back wall, while the shop owner Everett Ross stood behind the counter like an eerie sentry.

Sam kept looking at some wool coats for the next rainy season, even though he realized that he didn’t need to buy anything in Riley's size anymore, and the familiar faint grief as if he had stepped into a hole he didn’t see.

It had been six months, but Sarah could tell he was still feeling it because she asked him to leave the homestead and join her at the general store to purchase a nice gift for their mother on top of the necessities using the wool Sam sold, and the eggs Sarah took to market.

“Sam, what do you think of this for Ma?” Sarah asked, pulling out a gorgeous lace shawl, “Wouldn’t this be perfect to add to her Sunday best?”

“It would, but do you really think Ma would accept such a high-falutin looking thing, especially as that might be silk?” Sam asked with a raised eyebrow. If it really was a silk shawl, not even all the wool, timber, chickens, and Riley’s half of the property, would be enough to pay for it, and Ma would certainly turn it down as too much.

“It’s not, it’s clearly wool,” Sarah insisted.

“Actually that is a silk shawl,” Ross called from his spot, and the siblings ignored him. Also, Sam could smell the sheep musk still on the shawl, but Ross had fallen for suppliers lies in the past.

“I guess you’re right Sam, Ma would think this too much, how about some new feathers for her hat instead? The rooster tails are so last season,” Sarah said, “How about Peacock?”

“Ma hates peacocks remember? She took care of some when she was younger, calls them rats with wings,” Sam chuckled.

“Drat,” Sarah muttered.

“Ooooh, don’t let Ma hear her baby girl swear,” Sam said with a splitting grin, “It might rub off on my niece or nephew.”

Sarah wasn’t very far along yet, her dress was slightly looser on her form, but not enough to show the prenatal budge that was her first child to the untrained eye.

“John swears worse than I do,” Sarah grumbled.

“That’s what you get for marrying a lumberjack you met in Portland,” Sam laughed.

Sarah sniffed.

“We have dove feathers and a shipment of some egret feathers if you would prefer? If not, one of our guys brought in some great blue heron feathers, those are beautiful birds, and it’s complete with breeding plumage,” Ross piped up from behind the counter, when the door swung open, causing them to look.

In stumbled a man, tall, dark, and normally moved with elegance and grace like a gigantic cat, with a well-fitting wool coat, covered in splashes of mud.

The mud didn’t alarm Sam, it was the rainy season in Oregon, where it rained ten months out of the year, but some of that orangey brown clay looked more like it was mixed with blood, old blood by the smell of it. His hair was cut short, and it looked like before whatever emergency befell upon him, his beard was neatly trimmed too.

“Please, I need some medication, and I need some as soon as possible,” The man said in a smooth, firm accent.

It wasn’t like the southern twang Sam grew up hearing and lost on the trail to Oregon, or the nasal drawl that he heard in Boston or New York, like he’d hear Steve and Bucky slip into on occasion when the whiskey made them tipsy, or like Steve’s Irish accent when it made its appearance, when he heard Steve’s childhood accent Bucky would loudly proclaim it was time to come home, but that only worked when Peggy wasn’t present. The woman would encourage her husband on whatever hairbrained scheme his Irish brain came up with.

“Uh, I’m the owner of this establishment,” Ross said aloud.

The man blinked at him, before nodding, pulling himself up regal-like, as if he was some sort of king, “I am T’Challa, and I require medicine, one of my party is badly injured, and we would rather not lose him to blood poisoning.”

Sam and Sarah glanced at each other, and both nodded, leaving their potential purchases back on the shelf, Ma can wait on new feathers for her hat.

“Right, uh, right here,” Ross said, pulling out tonics, snake oil that Sam wouldn’t trust on even his worst enemies, and bandages, and Sam discretely moved the snake oil into the trash bin before T’Challa purchased them, not wanting the poor man to get poisoned.

Ross even helped carry some of the purchases to T’Challa’s horse, but Sam didn’t like the look of him. The horse was beautiful, but drenched in sweat from hard riding, and foaming at the mouth from dehydration as it kept dipping its mouth into the trough for some fresh water.

Sam knew the horse probably wouldn’t be able to make the journey back.

“Uh, perhaps we can help,” Sam offered, gesturing to the cart he and Sarah rode in on, Redwing had plenty of rest, and the trip to town was slow and easy on the horse.

“Yes, that could work much better, I thank you,” T’Challa said, thinking things through, and glancing at his horse for a moment before nodding in assent.

“Alright, then I’ll just place these in your wag-- Ow!” Ross exclaimed, wandering too close to T’Challa’s horse and startling it with his voice. It bit him on the arm, causing the shopkeeper to drop one of the bottles, which T’Challa realizing the value of the medicine, caught it with deft hands.

T’Challa soothed the animal in a soft language Sam never heard before, and Ross placed T’Challa’s packages into the wagon while Sarah climbed onto the driver's seat, and Sam climbed inside to stabilize the packages while T’Challa took the seat up front to give directions to his camp.

Sarah got them there at a good pace, and the place T’Challa was camped was a forest full of huge Spruce and Douglas fir trees, many stumps having small trees and seedlings growing in them, then punctuated by alder and maple trees with a few sprouting of oak before following up the trail to a small grouping of tents.

The fur trappers were busy, some were skinning some beaver carcasses, others were stretching out the hides, but most were running in and out of a tent, with bandages.

A bald woman glanced at the approaching tent before she called for “Mother Ramonda”

“How is he?” T’Challa asked, and a woman with grey hair held back in a tight bun approached him. She might have been wearing buckskins and an old wool riding skirt, but she wore them as if they were the finest jewels and silks. Sam made a wild guess that this was the “Mother Ramonda”.

“Your cousin isn’t doing well, I’m afraid,” She said, “His fever is getting worse and your sister found some extra wool blankets, but we’re afraid it might not be enough.”

“What about our place?” Sam asked, turning to Sarah, “We have a cabin nearby.”

“No, not your little cabin, that’s too far away, better to take him to Ma’s place, we’ve got the room there,” Sarah said instead, “And Ma’ house is a lot warmer.”

Ramonda nodded, “Very well, T’Challa, help your sister get Erik ready to be moved, he’s been a bit twitchy since the fever set in, I’ll prepare some provisions and we’ll meet at the cart in ten minutes. Shuri, go help your brother!”

“Yes, Mother,” T’Challa nodded and turned into the tent.

Another voice was inside, slurring and talking about an “Uncle James”, and “Where’s my Pa?” which Sam could not hear T’Challa’s responses to, but assumed was soothing as the man quieted down after being reassured about something.

T’challa’s mother was the first one to approach the cart. “These should help, we’ll join you shortly to help with my nephew.” Ramonda dropped a few bundles into the cart, and with Sam’s help lined space on the floor of the cart.

T’Challa and a teenager backed out the tent with a man bundled in blankets stretched between them, his face covered in bandages.

Sam leaned over the edge of the cart when they arrived and helped eased the injured man into the bottom of the cart. Shuri and her mother stood at the front of the cart while Sarah climbed on to the driver’s seat while Sam and T’Challa climbed into the cart to steady him.

“Sarah, are we ready to take him to Ma’s?” Sam ask and his sister nodded.

“On it, Sam.”

Redwing pulled the cart with minimal fighting of the commands, telling Sam that the horse picked up on the urgency of his mission as he pulled the cart down the trail, Sam and able-bodied adults, with the exception of Sarah, leaped out of the cart to keep the load light for the horse. Sarah guided the gelding with confidence she had picked up on their journey to Oregon.

“What happened?” Sam asked, glancing at the blood seeping into the bandages.

“Erik was trapping beaver when it happened,” T’Challa sighed, “We should have seen the signs, but Erik swore he was too much for the creature he had been calling ‘Killmonger’ a mountain lion he came across a lot while trapping, I was nearby, checking one of the traps when I heard Erik shout.”

T’Challa’s eyes scanned the low brush of bride’s veil bushes and smaller pine trees fighting to reach the canopy with careful eyes, “when I got there, he was on the ground, the creature stood over him. I charged, pulling out my pistol, but the mountain lion disappeared into the bushes, and I fired after it. I helped Erik to his feet and Shuri found us on our way back to camp.”

“I found his hunting knife next to the trap,” Shuri said, “And Erik wasn’t feverish then so he told us about how he fought it off, it’s face was cut by a few stikes, and that kept it from launching the killing blow, so when T’Challa arrived, it bolted.”

“I also think I may have shot it in the shoulder, but I was more concerned in keeping Erik alive to double check,” T’Challa added.

Erik cried and tried to scratch at his bandages, Ramonda was quick to hold his hands down and gently speak reassurances to him while leaning over the wall of the cart.

 “I wish we had some herbs from home, I would know exactly what we would need then,” She sighed.

So the wounds must have gotten infected, Sam thought, and he glanced at Erik in the cart. Sam could see some circular bite marks, cat teeth penetrated the skin very deeply, and making cleaning difficult, making infection almost inevitable.

They got to the road in silence, watching the lush green undergrowth as it lessened, patched into meadows of tall grass, the hills curling around as if carved in circular waves. Sam saw what he assumed where pale eyes gazing back, but then they would approach and Sam would realize he was staring at three-petaled white Trillium plants, and Sam inhaled and exhaled to reestablish his watchful calm.

They reached the road and heard a quick trotting sound, and Bucky appeared around the corner, a flighty young dabbled grey mare.

“Bucky!” Sam called with a wave, and Bucky, as well as a few of his ranch hands, Morita and Falsworth it looked like, pulled alongside, quickly spotting Erik in the cart.

“What’s going on?” Bucky asked.

“Bucky, could you or some of your ranch hands go to my mother’s house and tell her we have an emergency, we need the bed space for an injured trapper.”

“Right away, Monty, Jim, do you guys think you can tell Mother Wilson that she’s going to have company?” Bucky asked, and the two men nodded before taking off.

“What happened?” Bucky asked and Sam told him.

Then Bucky pulled out a bottle of whiskey, “I think this might help clean the wounds, buy you enough time for his body to fight it,” he said as he passed it to Shuri, who was closest, and she quickly glanced at the label and nodded when she saw what was on it.

“This had better be good whiskey,” She warned.

“It should be, we brewed it ourselves.”

Shuri glanced at it, then muttered “for science” and took a quick swig before her mother reached out to pull it way.

 The young woman ducked, capped the bottle, and made several choking coughs before she rasped, “That should be strong enough.”

Ramonda grabbed the bottle with a reproving look, “Shuri…”

“I’m not trying that again, Mother,” Shuri gasped, her coughing growing weaker but her voice was still raspy, “Thank you for your help, Mister Bucky.”

Sam could tell that might have been her first drink.

“Just Bucky, my family name is Barnes,” Bucky said with a shrug as he joined the procession.

Widow Wilson was already boiling water and pulling out fresh sheets by the time they arrived, putting her daughter-in-law Valerie, Gideon, and Bucky’s ranch hands to work, Jimmy was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the protesting screams, Sam guessed the toddler was put into his crib to keep him out of the way.

They got Erik settled and his aunt and cousins set to quick work cleaning the wounds, while Sam and Gideon boiled the old bandages to clean them, the fabric was a rare commodity out here, and soon the new bandages would need to be replaced.

Valerie ran out the back to slaughter one of the young roosters they were keeping for fall, he was small but already picking fights with some of his brothers and pecking his sisters so the Wilsons weren’t too upset to see him go so soon.

In the kitchen Sarah began to make a second broth out of an old ham bone, joining the young chicken in the pot.

By the time the sun had grown low on the horizon, Erik’s wounds had been cleaned with the whiskey, his bandages had been cleaned, and Barnes and his ranch hands went home.

Gideon, taking after their father, lead the prayers for miraculous healing. T’Challa and his family set aside and seemed to participate in their own prayers, Sam noticing that they seemed to mention Ancestors and a small carving of a black cat seemed to be passed from member to member before Ramonda placed the cat sculpture onto Erik’s chest as he slept fitfully.

The next day Erik seemed to open his eyes, a little more lucid, but still very weak, but by evening his fever had returned even harder, the children and Sarah stayed away from the room while all the healthy adults took shifts to tend to him.

In the late afternoon, Erik’s health took a turn for the worse, causing him to mutter even more deliriously, his wounds bleeding green pus, and the smell made even War-hardened Sam sick to his stomach.

His family did everything they could, cleaned his wounds, made him drink fluids, and in the end, Erik regained just enough health to make a final request.

“Pa always said the sunsets in back home were the most beautiful in the world, can I see one?” He asked weakly.

Sam glanced at T’Challa, who he got to know rather well.

T’Challa sighed, “We may still be in Oregon, Erik, but we’ll take you to see the sunset.”

Sam lead them to the top of the hill he and Riley named Cougar’s bluff, directing them away from Riley’s grave, not wanting what happened to Riley to happen to Erik, but Sam had a feeling Erik’s death was inevitable. Even young Shuri looked worn and numb, but her hands on her cousin’s back were gentle, almost guiding him on one final journey.

Sam gave the family space and turned his back on them to give them privacy, as a unit they watched the sunset over the mountains of the Oregon Cascades, Mount Hood to the South glimmering very brightly in the late evening sky.

When the light got low enough, Sam lit a lantern, the shadows growing longer, the sunlight turning golden orange, and by the time it was completely dark, Erik was gone, in his delirium, he believed he was dying in his birthplace.

The next morning, Sam offered a place besides Riley and Paul Wilson’s graves.

T’Challa thanked him, saying that it was important they did the funeral properly, sincere in his belief that he needed to help guide Erik’s spirit to the plains of the Ancestors where he could join his mother and father in peace.

It sounded beautiful to Sam, but Gideon still offered up his own prayers.

The entire camp of trappers arrived to pay their respects, Sam spent the entire day digging in the sharp red-orange clay, the wet earth dripping with spring rain, and indeed it started to rain when they buried Erik, T’Challa and his mother leading the prayers in a language only he and his family knew.

Sam stayed behind to talk to T’Challa after it was over.

“Thank you for offering us a place among your ancestors for Erik,” T’Challa began, they buried Erik so his grave would forever face the sunset in honor of his last request.

“Our pleasure, it was a shame such an evil thing had to attack him,” Sam said, and T’Challa blinked.

“To you, it may appear evil,” T’Challa said gently, “but among our people, that was just a mountain lion trying to survive. I’ve watched them, they kill when they take the opportunity, studying their prey so they could strike without risk of serious injury, a death sentence to such a silent and delicate creature. Is the wild falcon evil because she has to prey upon small songbirds to survive? Or that she brings her kills to her nest as her way to ensure her young survive? Animals kill to increase chances for them and their close kin to survive a harsh world, they have no other options.”

“So you’re saying it’s just chaos, you sound like you hold that cat--Killmonger, I think your cousin called it--with some reverence?” Sam pointed out.

“Reverence? No. Respect? Yes,” T’Challa said, “My people pray to the panther goddess Bast, back home,” then he raised his hand when he noticed Sam open his mouth, “I know, here in America I’m supposed to worship your god and leave mine behind.”

“No, this country is supposed to have freedom of religion, for what little that freedom is enforced and protected, and I lost my belief in my brother’s god years ago,” Sam sighed, feeling a life long weariness he had always carried.

T’Challa said nothing but looked back attentive to what Sam had to say.

Sam continued, “I mean, what kind of God allows some of his children to hold such power over others, to see them as nothing more than property, or to blindly fight to keep the status quo where the few rich are in power and see human life as nothing but cheap replacements.”

Redwing tilted her head again, almost like she was placing Sam’s fingers on loose feathers that were causing her to itch.

“I think we agree,” Sam’s companion said, breaking his silence, “That to survive, we need each other as equals to survive, we humans live in social groups for a reason, and we’d be doomed to our destruction when we ignore the humanity of others, our basic agency, and dignity, when we choose to needlessly destroy when we are blessed with the knowledge to know better, that is true evil. I have seen enough of this world to know that apathy, ignorance, bigotry and active hatred are the evils of this world.”

Sam chuckled grimly, gazing upon Riley’s stone, and their cabin beyond that, feeling his absence like half his body had been removed.  “Truer words have never been spoken, brother.”

“Speaking of family,” T’Challa began, “I discussed it with my camp last night, and we all agreed to go back home, I intend to take a ship back, and I fear that this may be the last time we’ll see each other for a long while, but when I can, I’ll write.”

“You guys have paper over there? I thought it was filled with invading Europeans?” Sam asked he had guessed that T’Challa was from somewhere in Africa, just not sure where.

T’Challa nodded, “I won’t say anything more, but I will not say anything about my home country, except I think I have been away for long enough. I will miss your company.”

“I’ll miss you too my friend,” Sam said, giving T’Challa a clap on the shoulder, and T’Challa pulled him into a hug.

Sam savored the hug and released him when T’Challa let go.

“For tonight, my family will rest, by morning, we’ll begin packing and making our way to Portland.”

“Travel in groups, and don’t let your guard down, it’s a seaport town, and it’s a rough place,” Sam warned, and T’Challa nodded.

“Safe travels, T’Challa.”

True to his word, T’Challa took his family and left the next morning shortly after dawn, and Sam returned to his cabin, and he walked in, gazed upon the tomb-like silence, some grief fresh and old rang in his heart.

Then he packed up everything he could carry, closed the cabin door, climbed onto Redwing’s back, and rode to the Wilson family house, his mother already selecting a spare room for him.

**Cougar’s Bluff 1970 The Barnes Ranch**

“Sharon, do you wanna go wake your Uncle Bucky?”

“Yes Pop!”

“Shush, darling, I swear you and your father will wake the others.”

Bucky didn’t want to leave his warm bed and fought down the instinctive reflex to deeply inhale, slowing his breathing to not reveal to the Carter-Rogers family that he was already awake. If he was awake, he’d have to start the day.

“Too late, but it looks like Barnes is the only one still out,” The traitor Dum Dum whispered about six feet away from Bucky's still form. He felt mild drowsy dismay and pulled his wool blankets tighter to delay the inevitable wake up call.

“Oh, well then, carry on my loves,” Peggy said, Bucky could hear her footsteps move from the bunks in the bedrooms to the kitchen, where Dernier and Pinky where already making breakfast.

“Ready Shar?” Steve asked in a whisper, only a tiny bit of his old Irish accent slipping through, a bad sign if Bucky ever heard one, and a quiet child’s giggle.

“One… Two…” Bucky had a feeling his old friend was lifting his child, her loose blond hair was dragging across the back of his exposed neck, and Bucky held still, waiting…. Waiting…

“Two and a quarter…. Two and a half… two and three quarters….”

“Three!” Sharon cried, completely ignoring her Pop’s counting lesson, and Bucky felt two tiny palms begin to pat his whiskery cheeks rhythmically, chanting “Unca Buck, Unca Buck!” in a pattern only understood by her young mind.

“Be gentle with Old Uncle Buck, Shar,” Steve teased, knowing full well by now that Bucky was awake, that little Irish brat.

 Never mind that the “brat” was a fully grown man with a wife and child, he never cleared Bucky’s shoulder, that made him a bonafide brat, and Bucky knew brats when he saw them.

Time to take this game up a notch.

“Rawr!” Bucky said just above a whisper--no need to startle the baby, Sharon was his niece after all, and her mother was the best shot in the county--reaching out, and pulling the toddler out of her father’s arms. Bucky pulled her to his chest, rolled over, the child shrieking in giggles and delighted laughter as her uncle gave her a whiskery raspberry on her tummy.

“Hey, give her back,” Steve protested teasingly, but Bucky pulled her further out of reach.

Sharon giggled even harder, “Alright, that’s enough before she pees on you, again.”

Bucky quickly passed the child into her father’s waiting arms, Sharon started burying her face into her father’s bony shoulder, chanting “Poppa, Poppa” with her lips popping the first Ps.

“Breakfast.”

So, tired, and determined not to be cold, Bucky leaped out of his bunk and pulled on his clothing while the rest of the ranch hands filed out, Steve leaving last with Sharon waving at Bucky on her way out before she turned and reached for her mother for her breakfast.

Bucky pulled out a bowl and ladle out some porridge while the group groggily ate and drank the coffee boiling from the stove.

After the group had eaten their fill, Gabe gave out the ranch hand’s directions, Peggy was in charge of the cattle after Bucky left, and Gabe was in charge of the goats, who would be grazing on some of the bushes and weeds the cattle avoided, Steve already calculated out the logistics of where the animals needed to be without taxing the grass on the property, seeing as they needed to herd the cows closer to the ranch house to protect them from the mountain lion, on an area they already grazed on.

“We’re going to need some hay for the cows for a while,” Gabe observed looking at the chart Steve drew out to determine which pastures needed to be used where. Gabe was a well-studied man, who read more about farming and agriculture after Bucky hired him on the trail to Oregon.

“It’d be easier if we had some chickens to eat some of the insects, they would also spread some the manure and the grass would probably grow faster,” Morita said, unlike the other Howling Commandos, Jim was born in California to a Japanese family, his father moving to California first, then his mother arrived over when Jim’s grandfathers arranged the match. Most folks ignored him and his family while they ran orchards to the south, and Jim moved north for a job opportunity when that job didn’t work out, Bucky hired him for his needed agricultural expertise.

“I’ll talk to the Wilsons while I’m there,” Bucky nodded, “last time I talked to them, they allowed a few hens to brood some chicks, so I might trade for a few in exchange for some leather from last year’s slaughter. Mother Wilson likes me.”

“Give you an excuse to talk to Sam some more,” Steve teased, “Tell him I said hi.”

“Tell him yourself, I’m not your messenger boy,” Bucky rebutted.

“That being said, I think we need to also deal with the Mountain Lion, including some safety rules, Jacques, you grew up here, and your family knows cougars, what do we need to know?” Monty asked, and Bucky was glad Monty thought of that.

Dernier paused for a moment, thinking back to his French fur trapper father and local mother, Bucky relied on Dernier local knowledge all the time, even when his family moved south from Washington.

“Ma mere et mon pere had a lot to say about cougars,” Dernier explained and the entire hushed to listen to him, “They are a stealthy animal, they can stand right behind you and you wouldn’t even know they were there, so be vigilant, and they mostly rely on low light of dusk and dawn for hunting, but they strike when they see an opportunity, so we’ll have to keep the petite Alouette closely supervised until it moves on.”

Sharon, the little lark in question, clutched to her mother’s blouse, but she gave her Uncle Frenchie all of her attention.

Dernier continued, “If you see one, you need to intimidate it because they will not strike at something that could lash back, shout wave your arms and make yourself look as big and intimidating as possible. You must make as much noise as possible, and never turn your back on it.”

“Is that all?” Dum Dum asked, and Dernier shook his head.

“No, they don’t scavenge off kills they haven’t made, so don’t bother poisoning a carcass, that will only kill everything else, including things you want to keep alive. Because they work so hard to get their prey, they will fight to protect their kills, so if you see the remains of a deer or something large that looks like it has been dragged or if there has been some freshly turned earth, back away slowly and warn everyone about it.”

“I’ll head to town then,” Bucky said, he needed to get the word out before anyone got hurt.

Winter was quick and she seemed to sense Bucky’s urgency and it took all morning for Bucky to reach Chinook Waters.

**Wilson’s Residence that Evening**

“I’m heading off now Gideon!” Sam called, and his brother waved him off.

“I still have a bad feeling about this,” Gideon said as he approached the barn with the sheep.

“I’m taking Redwing with me, I’ll be fine,” Sam insisted, “You worry about Jimmy and the rest of the family.”

Gideon rolled his eyes, but nodded, “You’ve fought the Confederates, I keep forgetting that you can take care of yourself.”

“If I run into any trouble, or if it gets too dark, I’ll just hang out at our old cabin until morning, alright?” Sam insisted again.

“If you’re not back by morning, I’m headed to the cabin to make sure you didn’t freeze your dumb ass out there, alright?” Gideon sighed and then reluctantly nodded.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sam patted his brother on the back, gave him a quick one-armed hug, and swung onto Redwing’s saddle and the horse trotted out of the barn and down the trail leading up to the Bluff.

The air was cold and moist with some fog coming in from the river, seeping between the trees like water streamed between fingers in a cupped hand.

The sky was overcast, and Sam caught a glimpse of a few dark clouds, but nothing to alarm him yet. He was familiar with Oregon weather to not underestimate it, wearing his oilskin coat over his wool jacket to keep warm and dry, aware that the weather will take a turn to the worst when his back was turned.

He lit a small lantern to illuminate the dark trees and make it easier to see in the patchy fog ahead.

“Let’s pick up some flowers,” Sam said to the horse, as he spotted two different lupin plants, their unique star-shaped leaves holding droplets of water in the center like a clear pearl, one was a rich dark purple, the other two different shades of lighter purple, and as he passed a bend in the trail he spotted a bright purple and white foxglove, which he grabbed, along with some three leaf clover shaped wood sorrel (for a snack really, they tasted a little like apple), and white tri-petaled trillium flowers the size of his palm. The bouquet was then divided into three bunches, and as Redwing climbed the switchback trail up the bluff.

The top of the hill had been cleared of trees, allowing the view for the three graves.  Sam dismounted Redwing and tethered him to a nearby douglas fir sapling. The first one Sam approached was Erik’s grave, facing the sunset, and Sam placed a flower bundle before the wooden cross.

“Erik, I got a letter from your cousin T’Challa last month, he won’t talk much about home, but from what I can read, he and the rest of your family are doing well,” Sam said to the grave, his back to the setting sun. Tonight the cloud cover and fog hid the mountains from sight, only marking dusk by the blue hint of the ambient light that only seemed to permeate the fog.

Next, Sam knelt next to his father’s grave, the mud soaking into the knees of his jeans, but he ignored the wetness and gently patted the gravestone.

“Hey Da, how’s it going?”

Unlike Erik’s grave, Paul Wilson’s grave was facing the Wilson Homestead, and Sam could see faint shapes in the distance and lights as the family began to make dinner and button down for the night, the fog making each action more like an abstract gesture than an actual view.

“I’m doing alright, Ma misses you like crazy, but she’s determined to run this homestead, and we still think of you.”

Sam gave the gravestone a final squeeze, placed the second bundle down, and made his way to the last one.

This one didn’t face the sunset or the Wilson homestead, but instead was facing a trail that leads down a different side of the hill, this one created a small view to a cabin, a tiny little intimate place among the pine trees, and one that held so many memories for Sam.

“Riley,” Sam began, his voice cracked a little, “How’s it going? I mean you’re dead, but today’s your birthday, so I thought I’d swing by. The homestead’s doing well, we’re swimming in wool, but we don’t have enough of everything to branch out in other directions yet.”

The grave remained silent in a way Riley never was in life.

Sam placed the bundle at the base of the gravestone.

“Barnes is taking good care of Winter, so you sold your stallion’s foal to a good man, I saw him in town about two weeks ago, and she pulled that hat of his off his head, the black one, I don’t know what happened to the brown one, and threw it on to the ground, and she played that game again after Barnes picked it up,” Sam continued, “Then she started nuzzling him for sugar cubes, so I think he spoils her rotten.”

“It still feels a little odd, it’s been over a year and a half, and while I miss you, I still feel a little unmoored, I moved back in with Ma because I couldn’t stand being alone anymore, and your cousin Will keeps sending me letters demanding I let him sell the place, says he has a customer in mind, but I won’t. It was our place, it was the house we built, the house we lived in, the cabin you… But I just don’t know, I just hope I get a sign from you about what I should do..”

Sam took a deep breath, unable to finish his sentence, “Anyway I’m just saying I miss you, and I might pay Barnes another visit again, I know how much you liked his company.”

He placed the last bundle of flowers onto the grave and got up to untether Redwing from the tree, picked up the lantern, and began to guide the horse to the trail back onto the homestead.

Only Redwing froze at the head of the trail and refused to move, his ears flat.

The trees were suddenly deadly silent, and the air was still, almost heavy with rain, but it gave the air an oppressive feeling, like something hungry was down that trail waiting for him.

Sam gently tried to urge the horse forward a few steps, but Redwing stopped and Sam could feel the horse tremble.

“Alright, I hear you, buddy,” Sam whispered, and he urged Redwing down the second trail, away from the homestead and towards his and Riley’s cabin.

Redwing followed the trail moving in a hurried walking pace rather than a trot or a run and only seemed to calm when the cabin’s abandoned stables came into view.

So Sam ushered his horse inside, secured the stable door, but noticed that the door was soft with dry rot, but it would be enough for tonight.

He picked his way to the cabin, lighting the old lantern and dried provisions, the beans, and rice, he left from the last time he was here, glad that no rodent found its way into the canned provisions, the jars still sealed shut and the food submerged in the vinegar still looked appropriately pickled.

Sam lit a fire in the kitchen hearth and began to start making supper, feeling the kitchen filled with warmth, rain starting to fall at first slowly but a few minutes later pelting down hard and heavy, making a soothing deep percussion on the roof. Sam leaned back, letting the pelting sound sooth him in the familiar kitchen, the pot bubbling in the hearth as the Sun finished sinking behind the horizon, the air outside easing into the dark. If Sam listened carefully enough he could almost imagine hearing the sound of the stable door opening and closing, the sound of Riley adding his old stallion in along side Redwing and their old mare. But that couldn’t be, the mare was back at the Wilson homestead, and their foal Winter was with her new owner at Barnes’ ranch.

Sam could almost imagine on top of the sound of the rain pounding outside, the sound of hurried footsteps, and Sam realized he wasn’t alone when beyond the kitchen, the cabin door swung open and someone entering.

Sam snapped to his feet, his hand reaching out and grabbing an old broom, “Who's there?”

“Sam?” Bucky asked alarmed from where he stood, his own lantern still lit and swinging as if lifting it up by reflex would illuminate an already well-lit room.

“What are you doing here?” Sam demanded.

“I was in town, and I heard rumors that Riley’s cousin was trying to sell the place, and I saw the light on my way back, so I was afraid he might have sent squatters instead,” Bucky said, his black hat dripping and his oilskin coat was soaked.

“Then William Burnside is a bigger jackass than I thought,” Sam sighed, then beckoned Bucky in. “Well come inside, it’s pouring down rain.”

Bucky pulled off his wet coat, mopped up the water in the entryway, and proceeded to the kitchen where he hung the jacket close to the fire and walked across the dirt floor of the kitchen to take a seat next to Sam, who walked to the cupboard to make a second place setting.

Sam’s heart fluttered gently at the relief that he was making a second place setting, and Bucky took Riley’s old chair.

“So are you going to take him to the Sheriff?” Bucky asked, and Sam snorted.

“You’ve never met our Sheriff have you?” Sam asked, “Gilmore Hodge is an arrogant idiot, I have brought this case to him before when Riley died and he told me to sort it out myself.”

“What about his deputy?” Bucky asked, dishing up some pickled carrots and beans.

“Jasper Sitwell? The man is efficient at what he does, but he refused to enforce the law he’s supposed to, and the more I talked the more I got the feeling if I kept pushing he’d side with Burnside to get it over with and move on, even though I have a legal claim to the place because of Riley’s will.”

“I wish I could help, best I could do is send Peggy at Gilmore Hodge, ever since she outshot him in that shooting game at the county fair, he’s been slightly afraid of her.”

“That has to be the most intelligent he’s ever been,” Then Sam paused, what was Barnes doing out, he’s normally on the other side of his property herding his steers. “What were you doing in town anyway, It isn’t your usual day for picking up supplies…”

“That’s because I needed to be in town today, Steve spotted a mountain lion yesterday near the marsh, and we think it’s still in the area,” Bucky said, “I’ve been trying to get the word out so nobody got attacked like that fur trapper last year.”

“And I’m guessing you swung by here to warn us?”

“Yeah, You’re the last person on my list to warn.”

“Well thank you, Barnes, I appreciate it,” Sam said, then silence descended on the kitchen, even the rain outside seemed to pause into stillness.

“And what are you doing out here, aren’t you normally at the homestead?” Bucky asked.

“Today’s Riley’s birthday, so I came to pay my respects,” Sam explained.

Bucky sucked in a breath in surprise, “That’s right, I can’t believe I forgot.”

Then like a scream piercing the night, there was a loud whiny and the loud banging sound of the stable door being knocked off its hinges and onto the ground outside.

“The horses,” Bucky said, his face going pale, his hand going for his pistol and Sam lept to his feet doing the same, grabbing the broom with his other.

Both men dashed out into the night, their lanterns flashing their way as they ran to the stable where the door looked like it had been knocked over with a hard hooved kick, and the horses were nowhere in sight.

“Redwing!” Sam shouted, and Bucky turned around and began looking around the cabin, looking for the two familiar forms of the horses.

Bucky ran forward a bit and sighed in relief, and Sam glanced to see Winter appear out of the foggy gloom like a ghost.

“Winter, here girl!” Bucky called and the mare ran straight for her human.

“Redwing!”  Sam called again, moving forward as he glanced at Bucky who was soothing his horse and trying to guide her to the house.

Sam felt a slight wind die down, and suddenly the fog grew thick around him, making visibility difficult, Barnes and Winter engulfed in the silver mist.

“Redwing?” Sam asked again, “Barnes?”

Sam had his finger near the trigger, but hesitated, he didn’t want to shoot Barnes or Redwing by mistake, instead of relying on the broomstick he was holding.

He moved forward, calling for Redwing before he saw a maple tree loom out of the gloom, and what looked like drag marks on the ground.

Something big and heavy was here and was dragged, leaving a streak of blood and mud along the grass and damaged undergrowth, the maple tree pressing to Sam’s side.

“Redwing?!” Sam shouted, he then saw some red fur on something limp before him, and he began to pray he was wrong.

“Oh god, please no,” He whispered and desperately took a step and stopped when he saw the horn.

It was a steer, it wasn’t his Redwing.

“Oh thank god,” Sam sighed for a moment before his heart stopped.

The fog shifted a little and Sam saw the outline of a massive long sleek cat with a pair of eyes glowing green in the lantern light, hunched over the steer protectively, canine teeth flashing white, it’s tail swishing behind it agitatedly. Scars ran down its face, and Sam could see a bald spot on its shoulder, an old scar shaped like an old bullet hole.

Sam took a step back, and then another, saw Killmonger hunch, and hissed, low and deep and Sam could feel it in his bones.

“Shit,” He grunted.

Then, to his absolute horror, his lantern ran out of oil and went dark, and Sam began to shout.

Sam swore as his life depended on it, waving the broomstick, and fired a shot in the direction he thought the mountain lion was, but he heard the sound of wood and knew his bullet struck a tree instead.

He cursed Killmonger’s parentage and choice of mate, he cursed out Gilmore Hodge’s inept ability to be a sheriff, the rich white southerners who held slaves, the odd stares or cold treatment he sometimes got just because he was black.

Sam slammed the broomstick into the maple tree he could feel, he stamped his feet to make sure he didn’t trip if he tripped he’d be as good as dead.

“Sam?!” Sam heard Bucky shout, and he was too afraid to look behind him.

“It’s Killmonger! It’s the cougar!” Sam shouted, “Get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving you behind!” Bucky exclaimed, and Sam heard Bucky’s footsteps, his voice much closer.

“I’m here, where is he?”

The fog was illuminated by Bucky’s lantern, and Bucky began to back away with Sam by his side.

“He’s in front of us,” Sam said in horror, and they kept backing up, two eyes flashed green again in the dark, this time a bit closer, and lower to the ground, ready to strike.

Then Sam heard it, from behind him and on his left, he heard a sound, it was deep like a neigh, but loud and furious, and Sam felt the sound as deep as his viscera, and a liver chestnut flash rushed right by Sam.

Sam could almost feel the heat of the horse as Redwing charged the mountain lion with the courage that Sam hadn’t seen since the war.

Killmonger sprang back to avoid being trampled on and had to scatter back even further when Redwing lunged with his teeth flashing, Sam hearing the horse’s teeth click shut. The cat tried to swat back with its claws, hissing in a low guttural growl, but Redwing reared back a little and Sam felt the force of the horse’s foot stomp before the horse whirled around a leveled a powerful kick at the mountain lion.

Killmonger backed up and climbed up the tree with the silent grace of the grave, and Redwing chased after him with a snap of his teeth before running back to Sam.

“Redwing,” Sam said weakly, realizing he owed this horse his life.

“We gotta get out of here,” Bucky interrupted, the eyes still glowing green from the tree above, and they made a strategic retreat back to the cabin.

“I managed to get Winter into the kitchen before I realized you weren’t behind me, so I doubled back to make sure you were okay,” Barnes explained once they opened the door and the mare approached them from next to the hearth, using her lips to gently nuzzle Bucky as if checking him for injuries. Redwing slid past Sam and took up space inside, leaning uninjured up against the wall while Sam shut and locked the cabin door, thanking Riley for one last solid repair job before he caught ill. Even in death, Riley was there for him.

“That was stupid Barnes, you could have gotten killed by the cat,” Sam snapped, his heart was beating wildly in his chest and Sam was still shaking, even though he knew he was safe.

“Oh, I saw how close you got, don’t you know the signs of a mountain lion kill when you see one?!" Barnes demanded, his bright blue eyes flashing like furious sapphires, his longer hair sliding out from under his hat, making him look wild.

Sam’s heart kept pounding but he noticed Redwing was watching them with interest, which meant they had to calm down.

“Well, I do now.” Sam said, lowering his voice, “Killmonger still out there, so we’re going to have to wait until well past early morning, I’ll take the first watch, I’m way too on edge to sleep.”

“I don’t think I’m getting any sleep either,” Bucky sighed, and they moved furniture close to the door and double checked all the windows to make sure everything was secure.

Silence filled the cabin and when both men took a seat by the fire, both the horses were calm. Sam leaned against Bucky, and Bucky shifted his arm to allow Sam to lean up against his chest.

It was a nice firm chest, warm and Sam could feel Bucky’s even breathing and his living heartbeat. Sam could smell Barnes’ own natural smell on top of the aftershave he must have used last, and it was pleasant and soothing after their near-death experience.

“Barnes, don’t tell anyone else I said this, but thank you.”

Bucky laughed, and Sam forgot how much he liked the sound, “Don’t thank me, we make a really good team, it’s rough out there.”

Sam remembered one of the last things T’Challa said after Erik’s funeral, “We live in social groups for a reason, it wouldn’t make sense to leave the other hanging.”

“Well, I like you way too much to let you get killed by an oversized kitty cat,” Bucky grumbled, but Sam knew he was flattered as he pulled Sam to him tighter.

They stayed awake all night, talking to fill the silence, Bucky talked about growing up with Steve and how he met Steve shortly after the Rogers moved to America during the famine. How Joseph Rogers worked and drank himself to a stupor with a lifelong hatred of the English until a factory accident took his life, how Sarah Rogers got a job as a nurse to support herself and Steve, and how her associate Erskine gave Steve a job during the war where Steve met Peggy.

Bucky talked about how his parents wanted to homestead in Indiana, and how he was born during their attempt to harness the land before his parents had a close call and moved to New York where he grew up and his sisters were born. Bucky still wrote to his sisters, but his parents passed away during a cholera epidemic a few years before Bucky packed up and moved west.

Sam didn’t want to talk about his childhood or the difficulties his parents faced, so instead, he talked about how he met Riley, how they joined the sixth cavalry division and fought for the Union, how Sam found and tamed Redwing and how they took care of each other during the war. How Riley used his connections to track down the rest of Sam’s family and they grabbed the first wagon they could afford, joined a wagon train and made their way west, how Paul Wilson drowned at the three island crossing, at the border to what is now Idaho and Oregon, and how the family established Paul Wilson’s grave at the homestead because they were never able to retrieve his body. About how on the Trail Gideon met Valerie and how at the end of the trail Sarah met John.

“So Riley and me built this place to give the newlyweds some privacy, and Ma stayed with them because the land there was flatter and easier on her joints,” Sam finished, the horizon to the east was getting lighter, and the horses slept on the feet next to the low hearth, the embers almost dead.

When the sun lit up the Columbia Gorge, and some of the clouds were still pink, both men urged the horses back outside.

The fog was gone, and they made their way back along the road, the fence between their properties alongside them.

“Were you and Riley ever?” Bucky asked slowly, Sam looked at Bucky, his eyes weren’t cold or judgemental, only soft, understanding, and if possible full of hope. Sam stopped, and Bucky turned to look at him, the fence firm beneath Sam’s fingertips and along his back.

“Yes, is that a problem?” Sam asked.

“No, my first love was a man, but he didn’t return my affections,” Bucky said, turning away as if trying to push down old feelings.

“What happened,” Sam asked.

“He found his happiness, perhaps it’s time I found mine,” Bucky said, turning to Sam once more, and Sam tentatively closed the gap between them, lips soft against Bucky’s.

Bucky gently cradled Sam’s head, and returned the kiss, knocking Sam back against the fence gently, and Bucky gently lifted Sam up so he was sitting on the fence as they deepened the kiss, Bucky’s left arm along the small of Sam’s back, his right arm on Sam’s thigh. Sam snaked his hand around Bucky’s back and felt the firm muscles of Bucky’s buttock against it.

When they came back up for air, Bucky pulled back a little, looking deep into Sam’s eyes and said, “What do you say, partner?”


	2. Historical Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

Historical Notes:

  1. Fun Fact: Most of Oregon’s towns are named after home towns of many white settlers, like Salem, Portland, Florence, Albany…etc or last names of founds like Brookings, Native American Tribes that originated in the area such as Clackamas or Geologic features such as Gold Beach or Corvallis. Chinook Waters is a fictional town that’s supposed to be a reference to the type of fish found in the Columbia River, also known as the official state fish.  

  2. In Oregon, they didn't bother regulating hunting until 1872, so any hunting mention (which was called pot hunting because what you caught went to providing food) was not poaching because there were no anti-poaching laws, and then it was set up as a trophy hunting type model which at first didn't work until they rewrote the laws.  

  3. a) Oregon has a long and racist history, and while it was a union state during the civil war, it was mostly a white state, Black People, as well as Latinx, Asian, Jewish, Native American, (and many other minorities I forgot to mention), did live in Oregon in the whole time and formed a lot of tight-knit communities.  
  
b) Many racist laws were written and while most were repealed during the lifetime they were written in, those laws were wrong then, just as they are wrong now.  
Those Laws also do not reflect the personal views of the author.  
  
c)As I wrote this fic and another one that unfortunately never saw the light of day (was referenced in my fic Roll for Initiative) I decided to give the racist part of history the middle finger and focus on the tight-knit communities and play up common acceptance because Oregon was deeply a Union State.  
For more information I recommend you check this out: https://www.opb.org/television/programs/oregonexperience/episodes/1301/


  1. The Native American Tribes were not recognized by the State of Oregon in the 1800s as a way to grab stolen land, and several tribes were moved to reservations, I was unable to fit a subplot about them, but I have a side story about that.  

  2. All wildlife mentioned are native to Oregon, along with several plants, many of which I see on my daily commute to work.  

  3. The Columbia Gorge is an area East of Portland Oregon where the Cascade Mountains shifts to the Eastern Oregon Dalles which are a series of hills covered in plains grasses, the gorge its self is where all the rain from the mountains and the sea are released as precipitation before heading to those plains so the climate is very wet, but also very mild.  

  4. The Salmon Runs as mentioned were historically considered very rich, but habitat destruction from dams (many of which are hydroelectric dams that still provide Oregon it’s electricity), housing, agricultural runoff, and overfishing have caused much of these to collapse or become a shadow of their former glory.  
  

  5. The "Shady men from Portland" is a reference to a rather dark practice called "Shanghai-ing" where people would get kidnapped and pressganged onto ships while their kidnappers would take the victim's paycheck, some people had died from inhospitable conditions or by not being fit for sailing. Until Sheriff Word--yes that was his real name--was elected in 1912 Portland Oregon had a reputation of being seedy town until he "cleaned up the town" by shutting down many businesses that participated in the practice. 



Thank you so much for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Notes in the next chapter


End file.
